Thursday, 12 October 2017

I have never been much of a geologist, mountains are just
big rocks to me, but even I have to admit the monolith is quite striking. It is
described by the guidebooks as impressive but I find it oppressive too, quite
unsettling. I’ve never been phased by a mountain before. It is black and
blacker, the light disappearing into it, all absorbed - none reflected, like it
steals photons. It looms, I can sort of feel it. When I turn my back it is
still there, on the periphery of my vision and my mind. It is undeniable and
inescapable. It is named Kirkjufell, it means church, but I’m calling it the
Monolith. The Monolith rises steeply from the rough cold sea, on the northern
shores of the Snaefellsnes peninsula in Iceland. A river empties into a bay
beside it, a seemingly dead bay, shallow and cold that in turn releases water
to the sea. The water here and in the sea is black as the mountain. I look up
from the dark water to the top of Kirkjufell/Monolith. The Monolith reaches a
sharp point, it seems that the harshest weather cannot dull this pinnacle, even
over thousands of years it has failed to blunt its razor sharp summit. The
Monolith is HARD.

I don’t feel like I am of this place, it isn’t somewhere I
could survive. I want to go home.

The weather must be a factor too. It is foul. The clouds are
only just above the sharp point of the Monolith, the wind is coming from all
kinds of directions and blowing over, under and around everything. A waterfall
is trying to live up to its name but can’t, the gale blowing it back up the
mountain. Spring in west Iceland can be savage. The rock, the black, the wind,
the cold. This place feels strong with the dark side of the Force.

A bus load of tourists have stopped to photograph the
Monolith and the waterfall that drops into the bay. The falls are a little
disappointing today as much of the water usually to be found in them has not
made it down the mountain. The party is a festival of brightly coloured
gore-tex and DSLRs, the weather is testing the limits of both clothing and
cameras and soon they are back on the coach, rumbling around the rest of the
peninsula. Up the road is a place you can eat rotten shark if you wish,
probably their next destination. We drove past. Instead I have some curious,
slightly chewy savoury mini donuts sweating in my coat pocket.

The coach rounds the headland and I am alone with the
Monolith again. I walk along the road and cross a bridge where the bay empties
into the sea via a short channel. It looks as if a troll could live under here
and feels as if any moment a gang of Tolkienesque dwarves might swarm over the
tourist bus as it trundles along the coast road. I pick my way along the rocky
shore.

In the silence and solitude my mind creeps to dark places
inhabited by these creatures, I start to scare myself. I am looking for Knot
(or any other wading bird) feeding on the seaweed that fringes the bay but I
fear I may find goblins or orcs, maybe some other beast from Viking folklore.

There is a painting by called Asgårdsreien by Peter Nicolai
Arbo that hangs in the National Gallery of Norway in Oslo. It pictures the myth
of the Wild Hunt, a horde of supernatural hunters thundering from a firey gash
in a dark and foreboding sky. Hundreds of deranged looking warriors on deranged
looking horses are in wild, bloodthirsty pursuit. In pursuit of what isn’t
exactly clear but whatever is being chased has to be terrified beyond measure.
In this place it seems like the Wild Hunt may descend from the top of
Kirkjufell at any moment.

Witnessing the
Wild Hunt was thought to herald some disaster such as war, floods or at best
the death of the one who witnessed it. This nugget of information doesn’t make
me feel any better.

Meeting any kind of mythical horde or creature here would
not surprise me.

Then I do.

A Harlequin approaches.

Most of us, I would think, recognise a Harlequin as a comic
character in plays, a duck or as a rugby team. All fairly innocuous, but it has
several, often sinister origins.

One is a story
possibly related to the English figure of Herla King or Herla cyning, himself a leader of the aforementioned Wild
Hunt, who as King of the Britons led his warriors in raids to the Otherworld
and back.

This legend possibly gives rise to an 11th
century French folk tale (another version of the Wild Hunt myth), that recounts the story of a monk who was
pursued by a mob of demons while roaming the coast of Normandy. The
demons in question were led by a masked, club-wielding giant and collectively
they were known as familia herlequin – Herlechin’s Troop.

Herlechin, Herlequin,
Herla King or Hellequin, eventually became Harlequin who was depicted as a
black-masked emissary of the devil, roving the countryside with a group of
demons chasing the damned souls of evil people to Hell.

Neither of these
tales is too reassuring if you are all alone beneath an imposing mountain by
the side of a spooky bay during a storm in Iceland.

(How and why am I
thinking all this while photographing ducks in Iceland? Well, despite the
remoteness and apparent desolation there is a pretty decent mobile internet signal
here and, in a quiet moment, some swift research and a vivid imagination had me
filling my head with these myths and legends)

My Harlequin is
much friendlier. It is a fine drake swimming in from the choppy sea to the more
sheltered bay. The plumage is beautiful and striking, there is nothing sinister
about him. He swims easily against the chop, peering under the water and
occasionally diving for prey, I cannot fathom what, the water is too dark for
me to see. Apart from wandering irregular vagrants the Harlequin never turns up
back home, for some birders it is almost as mythical a duck as Herla is a king.

Seeing it here,
in this strange creepy landscape seems appropriate. He fits in here as I don’t.
Harlequin swims close by, heading down the river towards the bay. He floats
under the bridge, into the dark, just the white marks on his face visible –
like a ghost and then he is gone.

I wander up to the road and look out across
the bay. He is nowhere to be seen. I stop, a little puzzled that I can’t find him
on the small, calm body of water below me. I invent a portal into the
Otherworld, a star gate to Asgard and imagine he has roared off there with Herlechin
and Thor to chase Tolkein’s orcs on the wildest of wild hunts. I quickly banish
those ludicrous thoughts. Perhaps it has lingered below the bridge. I fiddle
with the camera settings to cope with the darkness I’ll find there then turn to
have a look. I think again and decide not to follow him under the bridge.

Saturday, 13 May 2017

The
breeze ruffles the tide edge into ragged waves that start to creep up the
Hilbre Swash, a small channel that runs part way along the east side of the
island.

One side
of the channel is smooth sand bank where in the high summer hundreds of terns
gather. The other side, the island side, is where the sandstone reefs begin.
They are a mess of seaweed and barnacles, truth be told you can’t see a whole
lot of sandstone close to the swash edge. The crustaceans and vegetation thin
out the higher up the shore you climb and that is where I am.

I have
selected an inconspicuous barnacle free spot to wait in relative comfort for
the tide to push some of the Dunlin currently enjoying a feed in the cool
waters of the swash, closer to me and in range of my lens. First though I turn
to appreciate the sunrise. Always special, even more so enjoying it from Hilbre
with the prospect of some shorebird photography on a rising tide. A tiny point
of pale yellow light appears above the docks of Liverpool. Above it the sky is
graded in many shades of citrus that fade to indigo the further you raise your
head away from the horizon to view the sky.

I lower
my view to the Dunlin once I have welcomed the day. They are a little nervous,
an unsuccessful Peregine attack twenty minutes earlier still has them worried.
It failed but they know the predator is still hungry and may return at any
moment. A Lesser Black-backed Gull lazily sways and swoops over them and it’s
enough to send the flock up in panic. It is a photo opportunity for me while
they are too distant for shots of individual birds.

They
land, closer this time, but still too far away for my purposes. I’ll have to
wait a little longer for my pictures of these Dunlin.

To my
left I spot a movement in a patch of gloopy mud between two reefs. It is
darting mouse-like around its muddy puddle. A Ringed Plover. I swing the camera
around. Something to have a go at while the Dunnies dawdle at the tide edge. It
too is nervous, keeping one eye on the sky in case the Peregrine returns.

I always
think this species looks worried anyway so it’s expression fits the foreboding
of the flock. The mud in its puddle is particularly slack and soft. It runs a
few paces then stops in usual plover style. After a few seconds its feet have
disappeared, sunk into the slop.

Another
movement catches my eye, a little further out this time, between the Ringo and
the Dunlin. The tide is rising but it hasn’t yet built the momentum to breach
the top of the first reef. The Dunnies remain fixed to the tide edge.

The
movement I have seen is a Whimbrel. This is a bonus. There are always plenty of
Whimbrel around at this time of year but they are usually very skittish and it
is only on chance encounters like this one that you can get pictures.

Sitting
still for some time I have obviously escaped its notice and it has drifted
closer and closer. Another one calls from the other side of the old lifeboat
slipway and it looks up, over its shoulder, and takes off heading in the
direction of the sound.

The
Dunnies are still too far away. I won’t go chasing them, I might disturb them
and that wouldn’t be fair play, I want to get these pictures with a clear
conscience. If I did spook them the pictures would be tainted, I would feel
like I’d failed. They may be nice to look at but I’d have a little nagging
guilt each time I saw them until I wouldn’t be able to view them at all. I have
too much respect for these birds.

There is
just a little something about these long distance migratory shorebirds. What it
is I often can’t quite put my finger on.

I think
of their journeys to and from breeding grounds in the far north… That is it, it
is the mystery, the daring adventure. There is a certain romance to their life,
so much of it spent unseen, high above us on epic flights or hidden away on
inaccessible arctic tundras. Mysterious treeless lands bathed in perpetual
light in summer then shrouded in total darkness for months. I know in a couple
of weeks once these birds have refuelled they will be away from Hilbre, landing
in places I can only imagine for now and hope to visit myself one day.

All this
quiet contemplation while waiting for the birds to get closer is now an
essential part of the fun for my photography on Hilbre and the Dee. As is the
wonder of imagining where the bird whose image I will look at on the computer
screen this evening is going next, where will it nest? How will it do? Will it
pass through Hilbre on its way south in the autumn? Questions, mysteries.

It is
time to stop being so cerebral and to actually get some pictures. Birds are now
in range so I snuggle (is snuggle the right word for such an uncomfortable
perch?) down into the crevice in the rock I have selected and start shooting.

As usual
with this plan it all happens very quickly, the tide here can be swift,
although with today’s high pressure weather system it doesn’t zoom in with its
usual gusto.

The
Dunlin scurry over the rocks, a lone Turnstone whizzes past with them. The
camera starts to click with activity after a dormant hour waiting for tide to
usher the birds in.

I see
the Dunnies just being Dunnies. They haven’t noticed me, my drab clothes,
unassuming manner and uncomfortable hiding place have seen to that. I can
observe their natural behaviour. Some clearly have their minds on the imminent
breeding season. Males bump and barge into each other showing off to
prospective mates. Some are mindful of the miles that lie ahead and spend time
preening feathers in preparation for the flight to come.

A few decide a rest is
required, conservation of energy for the flight seems to be their priority.

A
handful sing, it is beautiful sound.

The show
is over in no time. I don’t see what spooks them, it may have been the
Peregrine, it may have been a false alarm. Whatever it is all the birds go up
in a rush, I don’t feel a whoosh of air from their wings but I expect one, the
noise is huge. They twist and turn low over the water and wheel around the
north end of the island where I lose them from view. The enigmatic flock.

The
rocks are silent before me. I don’t move, I remain and sit for a while thinking
about the Dunlin until the tide starts to lap at my wellington boots. Only then
do I pack up the camera and return to the sanctuary of the island.

Thursday, 20 April 2017

Hilbre is a dark shape on the horizon. The gloom and a light
mist have stripped it of any detail. The mist had made me think twice about
making the trek over, if it comes down dense then you can get hopelessly
disorientated very quickly with predictably dire consequences in this tidal
zone.

But the weather forecast is set fair, unseasonably warm if
it is to be believed so I decide to carry on. Confidence in my decision grows
as the dawn breaks and Hilbre becomes clearer. A slight breeze nudges the mist
out towards Liverpool Bay. The clouds over the mainland are starting to get a
pinkish tinge, sunrise is close. I love the dawn. The beginning, the freshness,
expectation. Dawn is cool. Cool Dawn. Connections and memories perk up in my
mind as I walk. Cool Dawn…

Back in the late 1990’s (when music and football if not
fashion was better) I was a poor(ish) student. Even though my education was
unencumbered by exorbitant tuition fees I still needed some vacation employment
to make ends meet. For a while I had a part time job in a betting office. I had
no prior interest in horses or horseracing and I have not followed it since I
left, it just seemed like a decent job for my schedule and bank balance at the
time.

Over a few months I learned how to read the form and work
out that this had little bearing on successfully picking a winner. As a general
rule I didn’t place bets, I knew the odds of actually making money was non-existent.
There is a reason why bookies drive around in flash cars and have fancy houses
– people are bad at picking winners.

It was March 1998 and the Cheltenham Festival was in full
swing. Posh people had taken a break from hunting foxes and shooting Hen
Harriers and were instead racing horses below Cleeve Hill.

The festival was working up to the Gold Cup in the afternoon
and I was casually looking through runners and riders over a brew when I saw
Cool Dawn was running at 25/1. I had seen this horse a couple of times before
and it had run really well, true it had been pulled up in its final race before
the Gold Cup - but 25/1? Really? I fancied some of that. At lunchtime I nipped
out with a crumpled fiver and spent £3 on a disappointing sandwich and stodgy cream
bun leaving £2 for a bet. I placed it in a rival turf accountant on the way
back to my shop. All the regulars were on See More Business so when that was
carried out by a loose horse at about halfway there was much swearing and
screwing up of betting slips.

I stayed quiet and watched as Cool Dawn had an untroubled
passage around and, under a little pressure from Strong Promise, crossed the
line into racing history, in the process making me £50 better off. I’ll never
forget Cool Dawn.

On this cool dawn I fumble with the settings on the camera
and eventually settling on something that seems appropriate and start the
intervalometer for a sunrise time-lapse sequence.

The sun is rising over the Royal Liverpool Golf Course, it’s
light spilling across the sands to Hilbre. Oystercatchers and the odd lingering Bar-tailed Godwit are preening in
the channel that runs along the east side of the island. It is almost silent, a
fuzzy hushing noise is just about audible from the water at tide’s edge, but
that quickly fades as my brain filters out the white noise. It catches the
occasional Oyc call and Redshank whistle.

As the sun climbs it starts to burn off the mist and things
come into sharp focus. Clear skies overnight with a mist forming in the early
hours had first encouraged, then grounded migrant birds. Two Song Thrush and a
handful of Chiffchaffs are on the island. There are Wheatears too, 5 if I have
counted correctly. These are what I want to photograph.

They flit up and down the west side of the island, in and
out of the shadows of the slopes and outcrops. They stop every now and then to
look around. I’m not sure if they are looking for danger or surveying the
ground for food. Either way they are still and it is a chance to photograph
them.

It is cool in the shadows, a reminder that despite the
sunshine that looks set to last all day, we can’t really call time on winter
yet. But the presence of Wheatears hints at a shift in season.

Spring is coming.
I find a small hollow and settle into it. I poke my head up to see if the birds
have come any closer. They seem to pop their heads up to see what is looking at
them.

They skip and jump after flies that go buzzing past and dart
at any buggy movement in the grass. Dashing on long legs towards anything that
looks like a meal.

There are still deep shadows on the west side of the island,
it won’t be fully illuminated for a while. One bird is flying from sunny patch
to sunny patch stopping occasionally to look for danger/food on a protruding
sandstone perch. It comes closer to my hollow. I put down the cinnamon bun I
had been scoffing (wiping my hands on the baby wipes I remembered to add to the
bag – see the Mudflat 3K mkII post for an explanation) and pick up the camera.
The light on its perch is wonderful, an orangey glow, cooler than sunset light,
it is dawn light. Cool dawn light.

The birds wander in and out of the grass, occasionally
disappearing in the new growth. The sward greening and lengthening as the
growing season slowly starts.

Click, click, click. Picture after picture of the
harbingers of Spring on the island.

The shadows shrink, the air feels warm for the first time, Wheatears
whirr past in pursuit of prey. I pull myself up to a sitting position,
satisfied with my pictures I put down the camera and swivel to allow the sun to
hit my face. I close my eyes in the glare and feel the warmth on my cheeks. Winter
has been vanquished, Spring has carried the day.

Thursday, 16 March 2017

The conventional wisdom would have you watching and
photographing birds on the rising to full tide. This seems reasonable as when
the tide floods the birds become corralled by the enveloping waters on to a
narrower and narrower stretch of beach, getting closer to shore each minute. There they roost and as they assemble and settle they are easier, in theory, to
watch and photograph. Thurstaston Shore on a rising tide is spot on for
photographing Blackwits and Hoylake on a big spring tide can be breath-taking.

Stumble across a roost on Hilbre Island and you can
have a prolonged period with the birds at close quarters for great viewing and
a decent stab at getting some pictures.

As I dawdled towards the island this particular
morning I was wondering what to shoot. I was on early and I followed the tide
out, stopping at Middle eye to wait for the safe route to become visible as the
tide dropped. The tide was receding much as my hairline was – slowly but with a
creeping inevitability.

Once on the main island it was clear that the hoped
for slew of early spring migrants was a wildly optimistic idea. A couple of Meadow
Pipits chased each other over the paddocks and a White Wagtail called overhead.
No Wheatears bounded along the west side and the skies were bereft of Sand Martin.
No matter.

I wandered down to the cliffs overlooking the whaleback
in the hope of finding a colour ringed Brent Goose. Down on the edge of the tide
Turnstones were picking their way through the rocks looking for food.

With not much else to point the camera at I thought
I’d give them a whirl. I started the steep descent to the shore at Shell Bay thinking
this was a good idea as there is a small gap in my Hilbre catalogue that I
could fill with Turnstone pictures.

The going was treacherous. Still wet seaweed was so
slippery I thought about abandoning the idea after a couple of wobbles. Camera
and attached lens don’t bounce.

The beach at Shell Bay gives way to rocky shore with
some pretty large boulders so I had cover to sneak towards the breaking waves.
The birds were foraging on the edge of the tide, enjoying the freshest seafood.
I found a suitable rock and hunkered down behind it so the birds could carry on
undisturbed while I fired off a few hundred frames in the intermittent
sunshine.

Over the course of a couple of hours I grew more and
more fascinated by the world these birds occupy. I am more than familiar with
these islands but I will admit that I have been too ignorant of the rocks and
all that lives on them.

To watch and record the Turnstones is to be taken into
this glittering post-tide world. The sights, the sounds and the smells. The
textures too; slime like seaweed, granular shell sand, calcareous – chalky barnacle
shell. This place is smothered with life. Every possible space has been
occupied by something. Look around and whatever surface you see there is some
creature or plant adhered, cemented, fixed in defiance of the roaring sea. When
I first arrived I thought it looked messy and chaotic, everything on top of
everything else. These creatures were living all over each other, like the most
overcrowded city on the planet.

After no time at all I was hooked. This glistening
world, refreshed with the tidal waters of Liverpool Bay thrived and heaved in
front of me. It seemed so fresh while smelling a bit like off fish. Fresh like
a baby out of a bath. The birds moved through it peering into empty barnacle
shell, flicking seaweed fronds and poking at periwinkles. To my left I spot a Sabellaria alveolata reef.

These
colonial worms make sandy burrows like a honeycomb, the Turnstones climb over
them, inspecting chambers for a meal.

I shift my position as the sun moves and
as I do I come across a beached jellyfish. I take its picture and afterwards,
looking at the image on the computer, I see my reflection in a bubble in the
pool it is stranded in. I nudge it with a wet welly boot then settle in to get
more pictures of the Turnstones.

I am struck by how out of place I am here. I feel…
really… terrestrial. These creatures are so different but utterly amazing. The
dropping tide had revealed wonder I had, until now, unforgivably ignored.

The pictures stacked up and soon the tide turned. It
isn’t wise to linger longer than you have to on the rising tide so I retraced
those treacherous steps to the island then worked my way back to the mainland
wondering where I had just been.

Thursday, 9 February 2017

2016 has been reviewed, chewed, swallowed then digested and
although some political and cultural upheavals left a sour taste in the mouth
the Patch and places visited because of it didn’t disappoint. They never do.

Updates to the blog were sporadic and not great in number as
photo opportunities were limited due to the most inspiring distraction, my
daughter Summer. I do not resent being drawn away from the Patch by her care, I
would swap a hundred Patch hours for just one with her innocence and
enthusiasm. She has torn up the Patch with me on a number of occasions and I
look forward to introducing her to more of its weird and wonderful wildlife
this year.

So if I do get out with the camera I have to make it count.
This is no bad thing as it has taught me to try and get the best out of the
camera and the Patch in short order, often at unusual times. It was almost like
I was treating time on the Patch like a lock in at the pub – photographing
after hours.

Looking back there were some obvious highlights in 2016.

great northern

A long staying Great Northern Diver on the West Kirby Marine
Lake, a few minutes walk from my house, meant a couple of opportunities for
pictures during Summer’s nap time. While my wife waited in I snapped this
effortlessly cool juvenile as it sauntered around the lake.

cool dawn

This and similar pictures will make up a full post to this
blog when I get round to it. Photographing migrating Wheatears on Hilbre Island
at sunrise? What could be cooler than that? And I was back in time for Summer’s
breakfast too.

unlimited Knot

Another trip to Porsanger with a quick visit to Varanger saw
more encounters with red Red Knots, and other stunning arctic wildlife. Seeing
them in breeding plumage never gets old. Not seeing Summer for a week got
pretty old pretty quickly.

small copper

Grandparents keen on exclusive access to Summer meant an
afternoon in the meadows with butterflies and other bugs. The sway of a summer
meadow seems far away as I write this but the pictures take me right back
there.

at the river

More dawn manoeuvres allowed time with the Blackwits on
Thurstston Shore, the place it all began. It remains the muddiest part of the
muddy banks of the Dee. Beautiful.

archipelago eagle

Summer was present for this picture. Her first trip north was
to the forests of the Stockholm Archipelago it was full of wonder, adventure
and this eagle. We climbed a hill through lichen clad sweet smelling pines. We
reached the summit with stunning views across the water to the mainland. The
White-tailed Eagle was rising on a thermal effortlessly cruising its Patch, it
flew right over us. We received a cursory glance, Summer dropped the stick she
was carrying, I grabbed a handful of pictures. It banked away, swept broad
wings back and sped away covering miles in minutes until it was lost from view.
Magic.

running over owls

As Summer slept soundly I left the cosy living room and full
control of the TV remote to my wife and headed over to Hilbre to photograph the
stars. A wildly inaccurate weather forecast had meant I was expecting clear
skies and I found 100% cloud cover. However, bumping into this Short-eared Owl
on the chilly return to the mainland banished all the ill-will I had cultivated
towards weather forecasters.

purple sandpiper

I decided that being marooned on Hilbre over high tide in
February was preferable to a trip to the in-laws so as Summer was spoiled by
grandparents I sat in the cold and damp on the island with only the Purps and
my thoughts for company.

What will 2017 bring? It has started with some foggy
encounters with Pintail and a trip to photograph Red Squirrels in a deep dark
wood, so the signs are good. Will I head north again? What “rares” will we get
on the Patch? Will Summer sleep through the night?

Thursday, 10 November 2016

I don’t just go to watch and photograph the birds, but that
is main reason. There is more. It is the routine, the preparation. Selecting
what coat to wear, what snacks to secrete in one of the many pockets it has
(all my coats have plentiful pockets). The notebook and pen. The ritual of
recording the date, time, weather etc. It is all of these things that make me…

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

Most of the time the Patch is fairly predictable. High then
low tide. Birds roosting then feeding. It is reassuring in its certainty. On
the whole I know what is likely to happen and what I have a chance of seeing
when I set out on another Patch manoeuvre.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

But then there are those moments. The little events and
happenings that keep you returning for days when nothing much happens because
there is always that slim chance that you will have another of those moments.
For some Patch watchers it is something rare turning up, an addition to a life
list or a Patch list. For me it is those moments that seem too crazy to be happening, the "Am I really seeing this?" moments.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

Hilbre stands at the head of the Patch, the furthest point
you can go finishing at Liverpool Bay and the wider Irish Sea. Today it is the
same as usual for this time of year. Redshanks and Turnstones scurry over the
low seaweed covered rocks in front of Middle Eye, the newly arrived Brent Geese
are grazing the weed on the west side and the Oystercatchers long running and
noisy disputes are continuing as normal.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

While things may be run-of-the-mill on the Patch today I am
seeing it a little differently, well, hardly seeing it at all really. It is
dark.

Now I wouldn’t normally recommend a trip to a tidal island
on one of the fastest tidal estuaries in northern Europe at night but I saw the
forecast for clear skies and thought it’d be a good evening for a spot of night
sky photography on the Patch.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

It seemed like a good idea. Reality was a little different.
As I gazed upon the screen of my phone showing a wildly inaccurate and overly
optimistic weather situation I knew it was going to be a bust as far as star
photography was concerned. There was some clear sky, trouble was it was several
miles away over the big city lights of Liverpool. Above us only clouds.

My companions were putting on a couple of brave faces and
making the most of the uniqueness of a trip to Hilbre in the dark. Testing set
ups, exposures, making mental compositions for when we could return under a
clearer firmament.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

The birds were still active. The Oystercatchers continued to
“pip-pip” in disagreement, a Curlew called but didn’t receive a reply. Redshank
piped lonely whistles every now and again. I think I heard Grey Plover too.

After a couple of cups of coffee and a bun each we decided
to cut our losses and head back to the mainland. As we were preparing to go the
clouds started to part. Perhaps we were going to get one small window to shoot
some stars. The Patch always delivers.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

We jumped in the 4x4 and headed over to Middle Eye to get a
shot looking back on the island with the starry sky above. Clouds rolled in.
Thwarted and further delayed from a return to the sanctuary and warmth of home.

We re-embark the vehicle and I flick on the headlights
illuminating the path home. The lights aren’t fantastic and I think I may have
to make good on my boast that I could find my way off the island with my eyes
shut. It’ll be an adventure, I think to myself.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

We bump over the rocks past Middle and emerge on to the
smoother sands that lead to Little Eye. There are a few scattered rocks that
poke out from the blanket of sand and I zig-zag the truck through these. After
a hundred yards or so of manoeuvring something unusual catches my eye on one of
the rocks. It looks a little different, beige and speckled rather than seaweed
covered reddish-brown sandstone.

Our path through the rocks takes us straight in its
direction, our headlights illuminating it. As we inch closer the beige blob
becomes discernible. That’s when I know the Patch has done it again.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

There on the rock, tearing at the bloody carcass of a
careless (or unlucky) Redshank sits a Short-eared Owl.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

A while ago I encountered a Shortie on the island. It was
soon after dawn and I was the first to arrive on the island. It had roosted on
the footpath along the west side of the island and as I walked along hoping to
find a Wheatear it looked up and fixed me with what could only be described as
a “hard stare”. At the time I remember thinking this is why I dragged myself
out of bed and walked across the muddy shore as dawn broke, for one off moments
like this.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

I thought “This will probably never happen again, so make
the most of it, get the settings right and get the picture”.

But it has happened again and this time in even more
unlikely circumstances. Who could have predicted this?

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

In shock I call out what I have seen so the others can see
too, I think there was some swearing involved, but I think I can be forgiven
the foul language due to the unique and unexpected events that are unfolding in
the beam of our headlights.

The Shortie seems unfazed by a car appearing at its dinner
table. It also seems unwilling to give up its prey. I can’t blame it, catching
a nifty Redshank in daylight must be tricky enough, let alone after nightfall.
It stays in the glare of the lights while we collectively fumble to reassemble
kit that had been stowed away in mild disappointment and try for a picture we
never thought we would ever get.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

High ISO, wide open lenses, slow shutter speeds, the odds of
a great shot are slim, but the Owl obliges by staying still and we have several
goes at getting it right.

I get all carried away and start saying sweeping statements
like “once in a lifetime”, or “never as long as you live”. The tinge of
disappointment at missing out on the stars is swept away on a tide of
owl-in-the-dark photography.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

After we have our pictures I carefully reverse away and take
a longer drive around the rocks so that we don’t disturb the owl’s meal (the
following day I return and find our tell-tale tracks in the sand and look at
the rocks where we encountered the Shortie. There are plenty of droppings and
no sign of any Redshank remains so I figure it lingered there long after we had
left).

As we round Little Eye and I point the vehicle at the lights
of West Kirby I say to my companions that we could repeat the trip a hundred
times or more and we’d never see that again. Later on it occurs to me that yes,
while we would not see a Shortie on prey in our headlights we would see
something else, another golden Patch moment.

Eat, sleep, Patch, repeat.

That’s why I return the next morning, and why I’ll keep
thrashing the Patch. It always delivers. Therefore I…